


Learning to Live Again

by Enfilade



Series: Mend What is Broken [4]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alcohol, Awkwardness, Better Future, Consensual, Consensual dating robots, Dating, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Drug Use, Past Sexual Abuse, Robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-26 07:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1679822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night does not make a relationship.  In the aftermath of his night with Ratchet, Drift realizes he has no idea how healthy relationships work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Best Smile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [homosindisguise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosindisguise/gifts), [extension_cord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/extension_cord/gifts).



> Here we go...story 4 of what's going to be at least a 6 story cycle. 
> 
> It's named for a Garth Brooks song, though the story of the song doesn't quite suit this tale. Regardless, the chorus stuck with me: learning to start over again is hard. For Ratchet, it's something he's almost forgotten how to do. For Drift, it's something he's never learned properly before. 
> 
> Yes, I'm a Decepticon and that means I do terrible things sometimes like stopping partway through racy chapters. If you've read my prior stuff, you'd know this already.
> 
> Enjoy.

Chapter One: My Best Smile

Drift opened the door of his hab suite and blinked in surprise at the reflection looking back at him from the glass in his mirror, next to his sword rack. He shifted, just to confirm his first impression, and the image moved along with him. Yes, that was really his reflection.

Huh.

Drift had somehow expected that he’d look…different. 

It was silly, when he thought about it. There wasn’t some label stamped on his chest saying I WAS FRAGGED BY THE CHIEF MEDICAL OFFICER.

…Maybe there was something in his aura, though. It looked lighter today, and Ultra Magnus had picked up on it, even if he claimed not to believe in auras. Drift had distinctly heard Magnus mutter to Rodimus that he suspected Drift of doing drugs.

Magnus just wouldn’t know a good mood if it bit him in the tailpipe.

Speaking of doing drugs, there was an unpleasant dry patch in the back of his throat, and now that he thought about it, the faint headache and restless hunger he’d been feeling all day suddenly accelerated into a dull throb and gnawing ache—the all-too-familiar feelings of Syk withdrawal. Usually any attempt to ignore them just elevated them into an increasingly painful, progressively more demanding cry from his body for more of the substance. Today, though, Drift shoved the thoughts from his mind with relative ease, aided partly by the high-grade medical blend he’d been drinking for the past two days, and partly the thought of what he’d been up to with Ratchet during that time.

Could it really be possible that just two days ago he’d been hanging out in the corridor leading to the medbay, pretending to examine wall rivets for about the thousandth time and hoping against hope that today might be the day when Ratchet would stop hiding from him?

A thought occurred to him – a fragment of a memory. Drift unlatched the cover over the medical diagnostic ports in his left arm when it occurred to him that his recollection might be a vision from a dream. Dear Primus, what if he’d only imagined…? For a moment he hesitated, uncertain, afraid to open that panel, in case the smooth, blank underside of the cover sent his hopes dissipating like sunlight burning through fog. He clenched his teeth. Ratchet…with him…just a dream….

_Of course you’d think that, kid._

Drift could practically imagine Ratchet’s voice chiding him. He hooked his fingers into the panel and threw it open so forcefully that the hinge ached in protest.

But there was his proof, shining in the overhead lights: a single engraved word, _forgiven_.

Drift released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and pulled fresh air into aching intakes as his systems surged with dizzying intensity. It was real. Him. And Ratchet. Together.

Drift fell onto his berth and dimmed his optics, feeling as though the universe was spinning all around him. Right here, in this room, in this _berth_ , he and Ratchet had… _Primus_. He was still tender under his armour where they’d… _Primus_. 

He was going to get a lot of mileage out of those memories and…

Drift’s good mood slammed to a halt when he realized that coasting on afterglow would only get him so far. This had happened the night the Lost Light docked on Hedonia, too – he and Ratchet had enjoyed a great night together and then for the next two weeks, Ratchet had locked himself away in the medbay and Drift, like an idiot, had done nothing but wait around for Ratchet to pay attention to him again.

He had to do _better_ this time.

What did normal mechs do when they found themselves at the start of a relationship? Drift cast helplessly through his thoughts for some semblance of a clue. Frivolous gifts and public nuzzling and loud declarations of affection didn’t seem to suit Ratchet’s style. Drift bit his lip. He wasn’t used to seeking out… _repeat performances_. He didn’t really know what he was supposed to do.

It would be easier to start with what he wasn’t supposed to do. He wasn’t supposed to stake out the med bay like Prowl hunting a criminal, and he ought not let Ratchet camp out in his office and fool himself into thinking Drift couldn’t be bothered to come in after him. Drift considered just dropping by, but that was problematic too. He didn’t want to have to justify himself to the other doctors quite yet, and he definitely didn’t want to be a pain in Ratchet’s aft while the ambulance was working.

A comm, though…that wasn’t an outrageous thing to do.

_Hey R.--_

_You busy?_

_\--D._

That was okay, right? Not too needy. Not too sexual. Not long and annoying in case Ratchet was busy. 

Drift jumped when he received the ping of an incoming comm moments later.

_D—_

_If this is a medical emergency, I’m on duty for the next two hours._

_If this is not a medical emergency… I’m off duty in two hours. Will be in my hab suite working._

_You could stop by, if you wanted._

_\--R._

Drift felt his spark lighten immeasurably. That? That was an _invitation_. Today was not going to be a repeat of the morning after Hedonia. Drift was going to march himself right down to Ratchet’s hab suite in precisely two hours.

Scrap.

What was he going to do with himself in the meantime?

*

Two hours later, Drift stood in front of his mirror once more. 

He’d gone to the communal oil bath, soaked his joints and tried really hard not to think about getting Ratchet in there with him and locking the door behind them. He’d sluiced off, then went back to his suite, got out every kind of wax and polish he had, and spent the next hour going over his frame with a buffing cloth until he absolutely gleamed. It wasn’t perfect – there were some spots on his back he just couldn’t reach – but for a job he’d done alone, it didn’t look half bad. 

Drift flashed a self-satisfied grin himself in the mirror and then suddenly lost his smile. For a moment his reflection had been entirely too…too _Deadlock_.

His new expression was no better. There’d been a time when Drift had thought he’d never recognize himself if he’d been warm and dry and well-repaired, and there was a time he’d sauntered through the streets of Kaon all polished up like he was right now with a swagger in his step and guns in his hands, but now Drift knew that all those things were merely a topcoat. The truth was in the face, in the eyes, and right now the eyes looking back at him belonged to a guttermech from the Dead End.

Drift turned his back on the mirror, clenching his hands, wondering how in the Pit he was supposed to go to Ratchet like this.

Except Ratchet had seen both Deadlock and the Rodion guttermech, and he’d accepted him anyway.

Drift looked back over his shoulder, at the mech in the mirror with his tentative, hopeful smile, and decided that yes, he was good enough as he was.

He left his hab-suite and shut the door behind him.

*

Moments later Drift was on the opposite end of the ship, wishing he’d gone a little easier on the polish.

“Nice detailing,” Skids had said as Drift had checked that his hab-suite door was secure. That had been kind of him. 

“HEY, SWEET WAX,” Swerve had bellowed as he’d passed the door of the room the diminutative metallurgist had commandeered for his bar. That had been…as subtle as Swerve ever was.

“Heeeey, looking shiiiiiiny,” Whirl had purred as they’d crossed in the corridor. Drift wasn’t sure if that was sarcasm or not. He’d found himself kind of hoping it was mockery and not…not….

And now he had Atomizer standing right in front of him, saying something similar to Whirl, all the while looking him up and down with leering optics. 

All of a sudden, Drift felt like a target. It wasn’t a nice feeling, and it reminded him how uncomfortable he was when mechs looked at him that way. Like a frag looking for a place to happen. He knew damned well Atomizer didn’t like him, and yet…

“I’ve got somewhere to be,” Drift said to Atomizer, “and something to do.” He drew his swords and tried to look hacked-off as he shoved his way past. A clattering sound behind him suggested that Atomizer had actually fallen over in his haste to get away from him, which gave Drift a moment of private amusement.

Drift rounded the corner, took in a breath of relief at seeing nobody in the hallway, and knocked on the door of Ratchet’s hab-suite. His optics were riveted on the medbay next door, because wouldn’t it be just his luck if Ambulon or Ultra Magnus or worst of all, Rodimus, were to come out right now and…

The door slid open in front of him.

“Come i…” said Ratchet, and then the Chief Medical Officer’s jaw dropped open.

Drift darted inside, inordinately relieved as the door closed behind him. He realized he was still holding his swords and shoved them awkwardly into their sheaths. His fingers fumbled as he unhooked the scabbards from his hips, knowing damned well Ratchet didn’t like weapons in his hab suite. “Sorry, I…”

Ratchet was still staring at him with a look of helpless astonishment. His gaze crept over Drift from head to foot and back, and the whole while his hands twitched. 

…It felt different than when Atomizer did it. Drift was half proud of himself, and half worried that he’d broken the CMO.

“Hey,” Drift said, daring a smile as he set his swords against the wall.

Ratchet licked at his lower lip and finally managed words. “Did you…want something, Drift?” His voice was gravelly and low.

“Um…” Drift felt grateful for his Great Sword—it gave him something to do other than stand here feeling dumb. He took it off and set it next to the others. _Come on, think…what do normal mechs say at a time like this?_

“Yeah, I figured, we’re both off duty, so I thought I’d come by and see if you wanted to, um…do stuff.”

“Do stuff,” Ratchet repeated. He lifted his hand as though to stroke Drift’s shoulder guard, and caught himself just an inch away. His hand hung there, frozen, in mid-air. There seemed to be an unusual amount of static in Ratchet’s voice as he asked, “What kind of stuff?”

“Every kind?” Drift guessed.

“ _Every_ kind.” It sounded a lot dirtier when Ratchet said it that way.

It wasn’t as though Drift actually minded if Ratchet wanted to do… _that_ kind of stuff, but he didn’t want Ratchet thinking it was the only thing he was interested in, either. “I mean, um, what do you usually do on your time off?”

Ratchet never showed up at Rewind’s movie nights; at least he hadn’t the few occasions Drift had gone, but Drift hadn’t attended all that often either. Ratchet never signed up for the sparring rooms, and very rarely at the targeting range. Some of the other mechs liked reading, or music, or games, but Drift had never seen Ratchet enjoying any of those pastimes. 

_It’s like I don’t know anything about him at all._

Ratchet fidgeted. “Um,” he said, lowering his hand to his side and standing there awkwardly. “I’m usually working.”

“I mean your time off work.”

“That’s what I mean,” Ratchet said awkwardly, “I do extra work. Or think about what work I could do next. Like filing or equipment maintenance or report writing or journal reading or working some of the cases into medical papers. Or running some experiments. Or…or sweeping the med bay.” Ratchet looked around his suite helplessly, seeking an answer he wouldn’t find. “And then I pick a job, and do it.”

Drift looked too. Ratchet lived in a room that was more like an office with a berth in the corner. Boxes of medical supplies took up an entire wall, while his massive (and overburdened) desk took the space ordinarily reserved for a couch and entertainment centre. All Ratchet’s personal belongings were crammed onto a nightstand next to his berth. Drift realized with a sharp intake of breath that _he_ probably had more belongings than Ratchet did, if you didn’t count all the medical-related things as personal possessions.

“I, er, if I’m feeling social, I go to Swerve’s?” Ratchet said, and the look on his face was almost pleading.

Drift could not have been more dumbstruck if he’d just been slapped by Primus Himself. How blind had he been, to miss something like this? He’d thought Ratchet had been blessed with a perfect life, into which he had intruded, and only by Ratchet’s immense mercy had the Chief Medical Officer deigned to share a little comfort with gutter trash like Drift. 

Well, he still thought highly of Ratchet’s mercy. But as he looked around the quarters-that-were-really-an-office, Drift realized he was looking at the room of a mech who lived for his job because he had so little else.

No wonder he’d been so crotchety when his hands had started failing.

“Do you want to go to Swerve’s tonight?” Drift asked, and even as he asked it he knew he’d go if Ratchet said yes, but he was really hoping Ratchet would say no.

The doctor shook his head in the negative.

“Would you rather do something else, just the two of us?”

Nod.

Drift grinned. “What would you like to do?”

Ratchet’s gaze swept up and down Drift’s frame again, and the medic’s cooling fans clicked on in a slow but definite rotation.

What was it with this polish? Did a little self-care broadcast “come frag me” messages to the entire ship? Drift didn’t mind if Ratchet got the message, but he still wasn’t comfortable with being too blatant about it. He didn’t want Ratchet to think of him as just someone to call for a good time…

“Can I _touch_?” Ratchet asked.

Drift nodded. Honestly, would he ever not want that? He hadn’t been thinking about it at the moment, but now, he was both remembering how good it felt and realizing that he couldn’t wait to do it again.

Ratchet’s hand settled gently on Drift’s shoulder guard and traced the curve of the metal. All the while, Ratchet’s thumb caressed him softly, as though inspecting the camber of the curve and the smoothness of the polish. Drift hissed through his teeth as Ratchet’s other hand closed around his waist.

“Is this what you want?” Ratchet murmured in his audio.

“I want to be with you,” Drift whispered back. “I want to do…ordinary stuff…that ordinary mechanisms do together.”

Ratchet pulled away far enough for Drift to see the question in his optics.

Drift’s mouth felt dry, and it had nothing to do with a residual Syk craving. “This counts,” he said, hearing the crackle of static in his own voice. He reached for Ratchet, closing his fingers over the medic’s shoulders. “You’ve got a three million year itch, don’t you?”

Ratchet bit at his lip. “I told you, you’ve got new equipment. We just broke that in yesterday…it needs more time to heal up.” Even as he spoke, his fingers were dancing over Drift’s transformation seams in a way that made the speedster’s knees go weak. 

Drift caught Ratchet’s mouth in a kiss, and struggled to use the time he’d bought to think, instead of letting himself get caught up in the marvel of _Ratchet wants me_. Ratchet was right about the new equipment, and even if Drift chose to deal with any pain it caused, he knew Ratchet would feel badly about it later. 

_We just broke that in yesterday_. Dear Primus, had they ever. In more ways than one…

Drift shoved away the marvellous memories that seemed almost more likely to be a fantasy than the hard and fast reality that they were; it would be too easy to get lost in those thoughts. He had to focus on one very specific recollection that…

Yes, he could hear Ratchet’s voice in the memory he pulled from his databanks. _I think if you do that, I won’t be able to pleasure you. Not the way you asked me to. If you’d like to, later…_

Today was _later_ , wasn’t it?

And, Drift realized with surprise, he actually _would_ like to….particularly when the medic’s talented hands rubbed teasingly at the hotspots along Drift’s spinal strut. Primus, he wasn’t used to this. He heard the throaty growl of fans and realized with more than a little shock that they were his own.

“Hey,” Drift whispered, shocked at how low and husky his own voice was. “Why don’t you sit down?”

Ratchet looked over his shoulder and snorted dismissively. “That desk chair is not as great as it looks.”

“Really?” Drift began nudging Ratchet in that direction, herding him by leaning against him until he stepped backwards. “Those cushions look pretty comfortable to me.”

“Yes… _for one mechanism_. It’s padded because I sit in it for hours on end. It might not look it, but that thing’s not strong enough for two, and…”

Ratchet broke off as the seat of the chair clipped his knees.

“Sit,” Drift said, hands on the CMO’s shoulders, and Ratchet, looking bewildered, sat.

Drift dropped to his knees in one fluid motion and reached up to kiss the doctor again. Ratchet didn’t argue, folding his arms over Drift’s shoulders, kneading at the shoulder blades. Drift took full advantage of the distraction to mount a full frontal assault on Ratchet’s armor plating, nuzzling and kissing.

Ratchet made a sound that might’ve been trying to be a word, but it came out as more of a strangled cry instead. That was good, very good. Drift looked up while running his tongue over the armour; then he slipped his fingers over the clasps, and grinned.

Ratchet was frozen, just staring at him. Drift felt his smile take on that distinctly _Deadlock_ edge. “A wise mech once told me,” he said in the low rumble of a predator, “that it wasn’t nice to do things that the other mech doesn’t want.”

Ratchet’s optics flickered.

“So….” Drift nipped at Ratchet’s thigh. “By your silence I presume you’d prefer I…”

“No,” Ratchet said quickly. “No, but…Drift…Drift, are you _sure_?”

If Ratchet had asked him to, he’d have hesitated. He hated to admit it, but yes, a part of him would have recoiled. But Ratchet hadn’t asked. This was Drift’s own idea, and he could see from Ratchet’s expression that the Chief Medical Officer wanted it.

Wanted it, and was willing to go without if Drift wasn’t sure.

Drift nodded.

Ratchet’s whole body relaxed back into the chair. “Yes,” he whispered through a burst of static. “Yes, Drift…yes _please_.”


	2. Benediction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing fanfiction a little more slowly this summer due to injury, cross-country move and professional commitments, but I still love me some Dratchet and have "planzzz," as Waspinator would say.
> 
> Enjoy!

For a time, Drift had entertained a fantasy that he might never again be where he found himself right now, on his knees before another mech, picking up the other’s cable with a deft curl of his tongue and twist of his lip. For a while, after he’d first started wearing the Autobot logo, he’d actually found himself getting off a little on telling other mechs no; on watching them stare at his curves, look hungrily at his frame, and thinking to himself _you’ll never know what it’s like to get a piece of me._ In his weaker moments, he’d feared that someday, Rodimus would ask him for more than he wanted to give and he, thirsting for approval, would give it anyway; but in his stronger moments Drift told himself that his days of servicing _anyone_ were over, forever.

But here he was with Ratchet.

Here he was and, surprisingly, not that uncomfortable to be here. Ratchet hadn’t asked for it, but the Chief Medical Officer couldn’t hide the look of need on his face when Drift had offered.

Why had he offered?

Because Ratchet had been so kind to him. Because, yes, part of him liked that expression of desperate _want_ on Ratchet’s features; and another part of him knew how it felt to need and be forced to go without. Because Ratchet would never force him, no matter how badly the ambulance wanted it. 

Because he wanted to make Ratchet happy.

Sucking cable was not exactly Drift’s favourite pastime, but he knew for a fact he was good at it. Ratchet’s jack and cord were immaculately clean, and the perfect size—not big enough to choke him and not so small that his lips and jaw would ache. 

_Just the right size to jack into you and fill you up perfectly._

Drift’s valve tingled at that thought, and—what in the Pit? He felt… _wet_ or something, under his armour. His port, tucked deep up in his valve, throbbed insistently.

Primus, he wasn’t used to this. Drift opened his mouth and sucked the tip of Ratchet’s cable right in, because _that_ he was used to. Not this treacherous anarchy in his own frame, spinning up his drives and cranking his crankshaft, causing his fans to spool up just as fast as Ratchet’s even though Ratchet was the one getting pleasured. Thinking about Ratchet did strange things to him, like making his own cord ache—he could guess that was because he’d discovered how much fun it was to be the one jacking into another mech, a mech without even a guard on his port—but also like making him wake up with his valve all moist and slick. Ratchet did things to him, and they all felt _great_ , but they were new and a little bit scary. Drift wasn’t prepared for a body that demanded interface at inopportune times and with such painful insistence.

Drift folded his lips around Ratchet’s cable and heard a long, contented sigh from the Chief Medical Officer. Ratchet sat in the chair in his hab suite that doubled as his private office, his armour off and his thighs spread, while Drift knelt in front of him. Drift dared a peek up and saw Ratchet’s optics dimmed in blissful contentment.

He was pleased. And Drift was responsible.

That made Drift feel good. Getting partners off always made Drift feel good. It gave him a certain power…a commodity to trade for attention, favours, affection. Drift had never liked interface so much as he’d liked what interface had gotten him, and that was why his relationship with Ratchet was so damned confusing, because he was starting to want the act for its own sake. He was learning what it was like to feel the craving.

His valve throbbed again and Drift instructed it to stop and leave him alone. This was about Ratchet right now.

Drift suckled gently and heard Ratchet gasp. The Chief Medical Officer’s frame tightened, and Drift held very still. Ratchet relaxed back into his chair, and Drift let his head bob, moving up and down Ratchet’s length, taking a little more cable into his mouth with each movement.

Drift knew a lot of tricks to hurry this up. In Rodion he’d had a vested interest in getting the job done as fast as possible. If you had a mech up against a wall, the longer you took, the more likely you were of getting caught in the act, and nobody wanted their good time interrupted by nosy passersby or worse, police. Interrupted customers were customers that didn’t bother to pay. On Drift’s side of the equation, the sooner he finished, the sooner he could score another hit of Syk…or, if need be, another customer. Get down, get busy, get done, and move on.

It was a bit tricky now to not do those things—to make this experience last. Fortunately, Ratchet’s equipment was scrupulously clean and well-maintained and, yes, tasted like Ratchet. Drift had licked a good portion of Ratchet’s frame during their last encounter and the flavour of the Chief Medical Officer remained with him, comforting and familiar. He bowed his neck and savoured that taste now, realizing he didn’t need to keep looking up at Ratchet to know who he was with. 

Drift was barely conscious of what he was doing until he felt warm plating under the pads of his fingers. He’d raised his arms, daring to touch the thin metal on Ratchet’s inner thighs, stroking gently. Reverently, even. The connection was somehow more intimate to Drift than the fact that Ratchet’s cable was a good way down Drift’s throat.

Oh, and Ratchet noticed it too. The Chief Medical Officer, who until now had been mostly silent save for the whirring of his fans and a series of soft but increasingly louder moans, cried out. Ratchet’s voice was staticky but he managed two interference-choked words that sounded like _thank you_ even as his body began a slow series of thrusts, seeking Drift’s further attention.

Drift felt his spark twist in his chest. Notan order for _harder, faster_ or a description of Drift as _whore_ or even _hot little piston-licker_ but _thank you_ , as though this act were something precious and rare and valuable, something beautiful, like a gift.

Then Ratchet’s hand slid down over the back of Drift’s helm.

Drift pulled air into his optics and braced himself. He knew what came next. He knew this was the part where Ratchet would crush his head into the medic’s thrusts, and for these next few moments it was going to be very uncomfortable, maybe even painful. He knew he couldn’t express that discomfort, because Ratchet expected him to pretend like he appreciated having his head supported, instead of thrashing against Ratchet’s restraint. 

…some of them liked it when he thrashed, but Ratchet? No…Ratchet would be the sort who wanted the pretense.

Drift, at least, knew a few moves that would ensure this wouldn’t take too long. And this was Ratchet. Discomfort would be worth it to make Ratchet happy.

Drift had actually begun using one of those moves—clamping the back of his throat around Ratchet’s data jack—when he realized that Ratchet’s hand had travelled over the side of his helm and, right now, was stroking his left finial.

Drift bobbed his head back, just to be sure, and though Ratchet kept hold of Drift’s fin, Drift wasn’t restrained in the least. 

Uncertain, Drift experimented—allowing Ratchet’s cable to just about escape his mouth before he hollowed his cheeks and drew it back in again. And repeat…very slowly…

Ratchet moaned. His hands tweaked Drift’s finial over and over in a pattern that was…

Drift’s fans roared.

Oh. _Oh._

Drift shifted his weight, rested his cheek on Ratchet’s right thigh. Ratchet petted Drift’s head crest in a way that sent racing tingles through the speedster’s neural net. Drift sucked slowly, decadently, on the cable in his mouth, as though he had all day to savour his partner. 

Then Drift did something he’d never done before.

He dimmed his optics.

Dimmed them, and let his world consist of Ratchet’s warmth beneath his cheek, Ratchet’s cable against his tongue, the symphony of their fans working in unison. The intense caress on Drift’s head; the taste of Ratchet in his mouth. His hands curved around the backs of Ratchet’s lower legs. Pleasure. Perfect safety and pleasure. 

Drift did not know how much time passed, only that he seemed to have entered the kind of state he chased in meditation despite the fact that he was doing something very naughty with another mechanism. He’d never felt like this before, despite the fact that he’d done this so many times. How was it possible that here, on his knees, his lips wrapped around Ratchet’s cable, he felt so—so reverent, almost holy? He watched Ratchet rock his hips, whimpering with need, and Drift knew it was _him_ reducing the Chief Medical Officer to this beautiful, vulnerable state. 

He sucked Ratchet’s cable in a slow, rhythmic motion, bobbing his head in time with Ratchet’s hips. The medic clearly appreciated it, if his sounds were any indication; his vocalizer had given out in favour of a series of “…aaaa….aaaa….” noises. Drift’s left finial was terribly tender, and he pulled it away from Ratchet’s touch by rotating his head and elevating the right side. Ratchet’s touch on his previously neglected right finial caused such a sudden jolt of delight that he almost lost his rhythm.

Almost, but not quite. Drift was good at this and knew it, but now he was grateful at last for his skill, because he was going to make this amazing for Ratchet, and blow the Chief Medical Officer’s mind.

Drift rose up, putting a little more weight on his knees so that he could take Ratchet’s cable deep, as deep as he dared. He pulled air into his intakes and then drank Ratchet down, closing his throat around Ratchet’s jack again, wrapping his lips around the very base of Ratchet’s cord, fluttering the lining of his throat. 

Then Drift lifted his head and lit his optics.

Ratchet was staring down at him, thunderstruck, and Drift couldn’t help it—he smiled.

Drift had a few practiced expressions that usually spurred mechs to completion. This wasn’t one of them. Drift had no idea what _love what I do to you, Ratch_ looked like—he’d never practiced it in the mirror. And he really hoped he’d be able to duplicate it, because it seemed this look really did it for the Chief Medical Officer.

Ratchet dug those vaunted hands into the arms of his chair so hard that Drift heard something in the furniture snap. The doctor threw his head back, opening his mouth, emitting a sound that was shockingly loud and deep, and strangely vulnerable for a mech who usually kept his emotions carefully hidden away behind a wall of sarcasm and guarded by cantankerous irritability. “Drift,” he choked, in a voice almost blotted out by static. “Drift, I….”

Static won out. That was all the warning Drift was going to get. And he appreciated it, yes he did, but he stroked the inside of Ratchet’s thighs to let him know that it was okay to proceed.

And Drift took him deep.

Ratchet’s electrical charge tore through Drift like lightning, and yes, it did hurt a little to swallow a charge down delicate internal throat linings, but fuses were easy to reset and, more importantly, that charge sent fire through rarely-used parts of Drift’s neural net. If this was pain, Drift would still sign up for more of it, because after it passed through, his neural relays glowed with radiant satisfaction. In fact, if Drift had to hazard a guess, he’d say that despite the strangeness and the intensity of the sensation, in the end it really felt a lot more like _pleasure_.

Drift waited for Ratchet to still before he released his cable; and even then he pressed a kiss to each of Ratchet’s thighs, because he could, before he looked up to meet his lover’s gaze.

Ratchet still looked more than a little stunned.

Drift knew the feeling, and his first instinct was to crawl up onto Ratchet’s lap and hold him, and nuzzle him, and let him know that Drift wasn’t the sort of mech who’d just get up and walk out now that he’d had his fun. As he lay his body against Ratchet’s, he wondered when he’d started considering _himself_ as the mech who’d just had a good time, even though he’d also been the one to…

He tucked up his feet, and suddenly Ratchet lurched backwards and dragged Drift with them. They came to a stop in an uncomfortable angled position. The furniture beneath them creaked ominously.

“I told you this chair won’t hold two people,” Ratchet grumbled, and then he relented. “If you want to cuddle, go get in the berth.”

Drift didn’t need to be told twice. He was across the room in a flash, but as he got in, he noticed that Ratchet had managed to get his armour back on, but he was still struggling to get out of the chair. Ratchet was older than Drift was, and more fragile than he liked to let on, but the medic’s main difficulty appeared to be the tremors in his knees, and Drift doubted they were the result of a pre-existing medical condition. No, he was pretty certain he’d put them there, and it sent a thrilling flash of power and accomplishment racing through his circuits.

Drift returned to Ratchet’s side. By the time he got there, Ratchet had managed to fasten his own armour. Drift wrapped his arm around the medic’s shoulders and began leading him to the berth. Ratchet scowled, but Drift noticed he didn’t argue as he leaned against the speedster. 

They crossed the room. Drift waited for Ratchet to sit and moved alongside him, perfectly synchronized. Ratchet, nearer the foot of the bed, lay down and moved over for Drift to join him. Drift needed no further invitation.

Here he was, cuddled up against Ratchet in the medic’s berth. Drift’s head spun pleasantly, helped along by the recurring tingles in his neural net. This, Drift thought, was better than circuit boosters any day.

Ratchet kissed his cheek. Drift hesitated, and before he knew what was happening, Ratchet was kissing him again.

On the mouth.

It had to be a mistake. Drift’s mouth was still tainted with the post-overload flavour of scorched circuitry, burned-out fuses and heated lubricant. Ratchet wouldn’t want to be kissing that, and so Drift cringed away from him. Not quite fast enough—Ratchet’s lips grazed his, and Drift swore he felt the medic’s tongue on his. Ratchet probably got a nasty taste, and Drift just wanted to bolt to find somewhere to rinse out his mouth.

Except Ratchet seemed almost hurt, the way he was looking at Drift.

“You got…some energon or something?” Drift stammered as he sat up. “Water, even?”

Ratchet pointed at the dispenser in the corner, but that look in his optics didn’t go away.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you wanted to…anyway. Let me clean up. I’m sorry.”

“Sure. You do what makes you comfortable.” Ratchet turned away, facing the wall.

Drift leaned over him, taking his arm. “It’s not me, it’s you. I’ll settle you in and then I’ll get myself to a state where I’m worth kissing.”

“You’re worth kissing now, kid.”

Drift snorted. “Ratch, come on, I taste like a gutter.”

“Prove it.”

Drift raised an optic ridge. Ratchet leaned in, close but not touching, keeping his gaze fixed on Drift. Drift seemed to remember saying something similar to Ratchet, not that long ago; and he was no coward, to back down from a challenge. 

Fine. Drift met Ratchet’s mouth and kissed him deep, waiting for the medic to jerk away or gag or tell him to stop.

He didn’t. Ratchet folded his arms around Drift’s back and returned the kiss with great enthusiasm. It was Drift who gasped, Drift who felt Ratchet’s tongue moving softly over his, despite what he’d so recently been doing with his mouth, despite what he must taste like. Ratchet groaned appreciatively and Drift wondered if Ratchet was getting off on this, on the taste of the aftermath, and a moment later he realized he didn’t mind if Ratchet was. Ratchet tasted sweet, and Drift could happily kiss the Chief Medical Officer forever.

“You don’t taste like a gutter,” Ratchet rasped. “You taste…beautiful. You are beautiful.”

Drift shivered.

“Beautiful and so affectionate,” Ratchet murmured, running his hands up Drift’s spinal strut. “So very, very generous…”

How could he not be? Who wouldn’t be, with a lover like Ratchet? Drift looked at Ratchet, confused, and what he saw in the Chief Medical Officer’s face wasn’t condescension but something that looked an awful lot like a feeling Drift knew all too well…uncertainty.

Rage roared within his spark, fury at whatever had put that look on Ratchet, _his Ratchet_ , and he could find no censure from his conscience to tame that anger.

Drift folded his frame over Ratchet’s, straddling him, laying his chest on the ambulance’s. They’d lain this way the first night, when the _Lost Light_ had been in orbit around Hedonia, and it felt right to Drift, as though their bodies had been precision engineered to fit together this way. Drift held himself close and said softly, “I want to make you happy, Ratch.”

Ratchet smiled, but his optics filled with pain. His grip on Drift’s shoulders tightened. “I shouldn’t ask,” the medic said slowly, “too much of someone like you…”

“Ask,” Drift insisted. “You know if I say no, there’s a good reason. Who would be angry at you just for asking? Just for….”

A breath hissed between Drift’s teeth as his mind drew a connection. _“Pharma_ ,” he hissed.

Ratchet looked away.

Drift’s frame tensed, but Pharma, wherever he was, was far away and likely dead, where even Drift’s swords could take no vengeance. In that moment Drift couldn’t have cared less about his own past. Who the hell could’ve had _Ratchet_ for a conjunx endura and failed to be good to him?

“Ratchet,” Drift said, frightened by the prospect of an enemy he couldn’t fight with blades. “Ratchet, look at me.” There had to be some sort of exercise or meditation to support Ratchet’s aura but Drift couldn’t remember it and even if he could, was it right to do it for Ratchet when Ratchet didn’t even believe in it? Panic welled up in his spark.

Ratchet met Drift’s gaze, looking unutterably weary.

“That’s over,” Drift said firmly. “You’ve got me now. Please.” He didn’t even know what he was asking Ratchet for, only that he needed something. “Please.”

Ratchet reached up, his palm a soft whisper against Drift’s cheek. “You are so beautiful,” he repeated. “Am I really enough for you?”

“Anyone who told you you aren’t is a filthy liar,” Drift whispered, his voice hoarse. “I have wanted to be with you so much, for so long.” 

Ratchet folded his arms around Drift and squeezed the white speedster tightly, and Drift gloried in it, because he knew that the hug was an acceptance.

“We’re going to be okay, Ratch,” Drift whispered. “We’re going to be okay.”

And he realized, much to his own surprise, that he believed it.


	3. Here's to Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who's waited patiently while I moved cross-country....we now return you to your regularly scheduled Dratchets.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to everyone who comments, reblogs, says hi to me at cons, kudos, and everyone who shares their own stuff, whether it be fic, art, comics, crafts, or just plain enthusiasm.
> 
> Chapters 4 & 5 forthcoming :)

* 

“What do you want to do next?” Ratchet whispered as he held Drift close.

Drift wriggled. Ratchet was partial to these kinds of open-ended questions. The intent behind them was sweet – he knew Ratchet wanted to be sure they did things Drift would enjoy – but Drift still never knew what to say. “Um, I don’t know,” he said, and then added desperately, “what do you think Chromedome and Rewind do when they’re not fragging or arguing with each other?”

Ratchet’s optics flickered and he drew back far enough to get a good hard look in Drift’s optics. “You were being literal when you said you wanted to do every kind of stuff. “

Drift nodded.

The medic’s face took on a pained expression. “You wanted to have an evening of ordinary companionship.”

Drift wasn’t sure this relationship was at all ordinary, but he nodded again.

“And I come onto you like a cranked-up kid fresh off the assembly line.” Ratchet groaned, plastering his palm over his optics.

Drift grabbed Ratchet’s wrist and pulled the hand away. “Hey, it’s not that I didn’t want to do…what we just did. It was…” He shivered. “Really, really great.”

“I know,” Ratchet whispered, and then coughed, embarrassed.

“But, um, yeah. I mean, we can’t just frag all the time, right? We’ll break the equipment.”

Ratchet coughed louder, almost choking.

“And, um, I don’t want to just be someone you call when you’ve got the itch.” Drift bit his lip. “I don’t want you to just be someone I call when I’m feeling lonely.”

“Never that, kid.” Ratchet curled his hand over Drift’s waist. For a while, they lay quietly next to one another, and Drift wondered what Ratchet was thinking. He felt guilty for placing all the responsibility for tonight’s activity on Ratchet, particularly now that he knew how Ratchet filled his days with work to hide the emptiness left behind when he and Pharma had called it quits. He wondered what Ratchet had been like before he’d gotten serious with Pharma; he wondered if Ratchet even remembered.

“Do you ever drink engex?” Ratchet asked, out of the blue.

Drift blinked.

“I don’t ever see you ordering intoxicants,” Ratchet said awkwardly, “and it would be rude of me to offer if there was a reason for that, whether it’s to do with your, er, past medical history or some craz…some religious prohibition,” the medic finished awkwardly.

“You’re right,” Drift says, “mechanisms with addictive personalities shouldn’t overindulge in intoxicants, and you’re also right that Spectralism teaches that a mech can’t be in tune with the ebb and flow of the universe if his perception is muddled by fuel additives. But Spectralism doesn’t exactly _prohibit_ having any, _ever_. It’s more like a warning to consume in moderation and remain in control of your usage. And I was never an engex addict, so while I don’t want to become one…” Trailcutter’s name went unspoken, but Drift was certain Ratchet was thinking it. “…I also don’t end up bingeing if a single sip crosses my lips. Otherwise I’d never go anywhere near the bar when Swerve is playing Truth or Drink. So, yeah, I guess that’s a long answer to say, while I don’t drink very often, I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to have a glass with you every now and then. If you wanted.” He offered Ratchet a smile.

Ratchet sat up in the berth. “Okay, then I think I have an idea. You okay to go on a little trip with me?”

Drift laughed, and had the nerve to tease, “I’m not the one who had trouble walking over to this berth.”

“Cheeky kid,” Ratchet muttered, but Drift noticed him checking the clasps on his armour just to make sure. “All right, come with me and follow my lead.” He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a soft-sided sack about the size of Brainstorm’s infamous briefcase. Ratchet quickly dropped a few objects into it before tugging it closed and leaving the room with the bag in his left hand.

Curious, Drift tagged along behind Ratchet as the medic made his way through the corridors of the _Lost Light_. Drift’s glossy wax was a bit scuffed now, but he still caught sight of a few heads turning to check out his aft. He shivered and walked closer to Ratchet, vowing to never, ever get this carried away with the polish again.

Ratchet made an unexpected turn to the left, and Drift’s optics brightened in surprise. There wasn’t anything down this corridor but…

Drift tugged at Ratchet’s shoulder, looking up at him questioningly. Ratchet flashed Drift a roguish smile and slammed open the door to the observation lounge.

The far wall of the observation lounge was made up almost entirely of floor-to-ceiling transparent titaniplex viewscreens, providing a wide panoramic view of space as the _Lost Light_ travelled through the vacuum of space. A series of chairs and a few wide couches provided furnishings for bots to sit, relax, and enjoy the view. By unspoken agreement, the observation lounge was not a venue for rowdy parties or loud conversations.

Over Ratchet’s shoulder, Drift saw there were only a handful of occupants in the observation lounge tonight, including Cyclonus, seated in one of the chairs and regarding the stars in silent contemplation; Tailgate, sitting next to him, occasionally letting out excited squeaks or gasps of awe and earning him an elbow in the ribs from his companion; and Dipstick, immersed in a book on his datapad.

“Everybody out!” Ratchet bellowed. “This room is under quarantine.”

“Quarantine?” Tailgate pipped anxiously.

“I’ve been instructed to test the room for possible organic contamination,” Ratchet growled, jerking his thumb at Drift as though to imply that Drift had given him that instruction. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing _lethal_ , but you’d all best minimize your exposure until I determine whether or not we have a problem. If we do, I’ll personally see you all and ensure you’re in good health.”

Cyclonus rose to his feet and folded his arms. “And what might the symptoms of this _problem_ be?”

“Quivers in your spinal strut, strobing in your optics and a tinny taste in your mouth,” Ratchet replied, perfectly straight-faced.

Dipstick grunted and pushed his way past Drift and Ratchet, clearly unaffected and hoping to stay that way. Tailgate, though, turned to Cyclonus and said with a squeal, “I have _all those things_!”

“It won’t be _fatal_ ,” Cyclonus snarled sourly, “ _probably_ ,” and he turned his back on the anxiously squeaking Tailgate and strode from the room, with the minibot tagging at his heels.

Ratchet watched them go, then pulled an object from his bag—a sign reading QUARANTINE—hung it on the outside of the door, stepped back inside, closed the door, engaged the locks and overrode the unlock procedure with a command code known only to officers. Drift watched this until Ratchet turned to him, that roguish grin reappearing on his features, and Drift’s jaw dropped open. 

“You…you did that on _purpose_ ,” Drift blurted.

“And Ultra Magnus is on sleep cycle, which means we’ve got the better part of four hours before we have to worry about him waking up and wondering what’s going on.”

Drift felt a slow smirk creep across his face. Rodimus wouldn’t bother asking if he thought Drift and Ratchet were handling the situation. 

Ratchet grinned as he pulled a can of fire-retardant foam out of his sack. “Oh dear, my _finger slipped_ ,” he said as a burst of foam covered the lens of one of the security cameras in the observation lounge. “Must be something with my _hands_ again.” Another lens disappeared in a puff of white fuzz.

“Let me,” Drift offered, and took the can. Two quick squirts covered the last two cameras. “It’s not you, Ratch, I think it’s the can.”

Ratchet walked over to the wide aisle between the two clusters of chairs next to the viewport windows. He set down the bag, knelt, and removed a device. “Now Drift, you’ll have to be very quiet while the sensors do their work,” he said as he activated it with a push of a button.

Drift approached. “Ratch, is that a white noise generator?” 

That smug grin widened. “Yes, it is. So. If you’re on shipboard surveillance: nothing to see, nothing to hear, and two officers taking care of the matter.” 

This, Drift realized, might be a part of who Ratchet had been, long ago…a bit of a troublemaker, really. “So all those stories about you being wild when you were young…those are all true, aren’t they?”

“Well, maybe not all of them.” Ratchet laughed softly. “Though you know, this really does bring back memories. I haven’t felt like this in…eons, really.” The last items out of the bag were a pair of fluffy tarps and a dusty bottle of quintuple-filtered engex with a brand name even Drift recognized, though he’d seen it in person only once before, in Starscream’s quarters. Megatron had always eschewed luxuries that cost more than a miner’s—or even a champion gladiator’s—life. 

Ratchet unfolded one of the tarps, laying it down on the floor, while Drift stared at the bottle and the softly glowing contents within. He hardly dared touch it for fear he’d break it. “Where’d you get it?” he asked.

“Inherited it,” Ratchet said casually, but Drift noticed the medic’s optics darken. Then he looked at Drift, and, with a sigh, lowered himself carefully onto the tarp. He picked up the bottle and cradled it tenderly in borrowed hands. “I don’t know who had it first. It belonged to a field medic for a while – Vax, we called him, short for Medivac. He was killed in the Second Vorsk Offensive, trying to evacuate wounded from the battlefield. He left it to Capsule, a mech he went to medical school with, and Capsule had all these theories about where Vax had gotten it. One was that it was a gift from a high-ranking Autobot officer; one was that he looted it from a ruined house in Vos; one was that it belonged to a patient who died in Vax’s medbay, and another was that it was a gift from the grateful conjunx endura of a mech Vax had saved. I suppose we’ll never know the truth of that.” He turned the bottle over. “Capsule…he didn’t hold up well with the stresses of being a medic. Lost too many patients. Let things get too personal. Leave it to a medic to figure out how to offline himself permanently.”

Drift sank to his knees next to Ratchet and lay his hand on Ratchet’s shoulder, because he had no idea whether or not Ratchet had ever thought that way, but the pain in his voice was evident. 

“There were a couple more doctors who had it after Capsule, and finally it came to me via a young mech I taught medicine to…one of my last students. His name was Triage. He always put others ahead of himself and in one of his typical selfless acts, he gave up his seat on the evacuation shuttle and ended up getting captured by the Decepticons. It…didn’t end well.”

Drift froze, because he knew all too well that Ratchet blamed himself for Deadlock’s kills. Mechs too injured for Ratchet to save; causality, from fixing Drift in the Dead End so long ago. Ratchet shouldn’t—that blood was on Drift’s hands, _his_ doing—but Ratchet did anyway, and Drift felt the guilt on his shoulders double until he thought of that word carved under the plate on his arm, _forgiven_.

“Anyway, the point is I’ve let the thing sit around for the better part of a million years, telling myself I’d open it on a special occasion. Then I…didn’t. So, before I die and leave the thing to First Aid, I figured…high time I crack it open.” He offered Drift a rugged but genuine smile.

Emotion clawed its way up Drift’s throat, insisting he wasn’t worth the waste of such a gift, but before it could reach his vocal processor he ground his teeth together and gulped the feeling back down again. This was Ratchet’s choice. His fingers traced the seam of the hatch to his arm’s medical access ports.

_Forgiven._

Ratchet took out two crystal glasses, worn and chipped but still pretty fancy by Drift’s standards. The faded logo of the Deltaran medical facility was still visible on the side. Ratchet popped the fastener and poured the fizzy, smooth-flowing fuel into the glasses. Drift, inexplicably shy, stared out the titaniplex window instead, looking into the endless field of stars and feeling very, very small.

“Drift.”

Ratchet’s voice was gentle. Drift tore his gaze from the infinite starfield and turned to see Ratchet, kneeling on the tarp, a glass in each hand, his right hand held out in offering to Drift.

Drift probably looked like an idiot, but he didn’t care. His smile was so big it hurt. He could feel it. He crept forward, onto the tarp, and took the offered glass.

“Here’s to the future,” Ratchet said, holding up his drink.

“Here’s to _having_ a future,” Drift replied, and Ratchet’s gaze flicked to his hands before he nodded, and touched his glass to Drift’s.

They drank.

Drift had expected that really expensive engex would be strong, and it was, but he’d also expected that _strong_ and _tasty_ would be mutually exclusive and the flavour would be something best described as _who would buy this when they could spend the money on a starship_?

Now, Drift understood.

It was _good._ Really, really good…even _once in a lifetime_ good. Drift took another sip, just to be sure, and the second was every bit as mind-blowing as the first. The corners of his mouth ached from smiling. 

“And now here’s to us,” Ratchet murmured, and held out his glass to Drift.

Drift had seen this ritual in the holos, but knowing how it worked and actually doing it were far from the same. He held out his own glass to Ratchet and tried to figure out the fine line between tilting it too far, and pouring the engex all over Ratchet, and not tilting it far enough so Ratchet couldn’t get any, and all the while trying to take a sip of his own out of Ratchet’s glass. Drift only got a little taste, but his head spun anyway. “Here’s to us,” he agreed.

Ratchet set his glass down and wrapped his arm around Drift’s waist. Drift did the same and lay his head on Ratchet’s shoulder. The warmth of Ratchet’s touch infused his whole body while the engex lit a soft glow in his tanks. Drift looked up at the stars again and wondered how he, a bot who’d resigned himself to an inglorious death in the gutters of Rodion, could be here, now, with the whole universe seemingly in arm’s reach. The idea that he, Drift, could be third-in-command of a starship, with the medic who saved his life as his lover, and a civilization-shaking quest ahead of him, was…Ridiculous. Insane. Perfect.

And all the while, he had the strangest feeling he’d been here before, and that it had been good and that this was better.

He was so happy it hurt.

“It’s not exactly a hotel,” Ratchet said quietly, “but I hope it’ll do.”

Suddenly Drift understood the reason for his sensation of déjà vu. Back in Rodion, the best nights of his life had been those in which he and Gasket had gotten smashed on circuit speeders and climbed up on the roof of a condemned hotel and watched the stars glowing in the firmament while the intoxicants in their systems lifted them up and out of their hollow lives as empties in the Dead End. He’d shyly told Ratchet about it, knowing that the doctor didn’t approve of dangerous recreational drugs and all too aware that Ratchet’s life as an elite professional under the Functionalists was eons apart from the life of...

Well. Drift supposed it all came back to a factory run of cold-constructed bots in which there had been one extra bodyshell, one extra spark…number five hundred and one, when only five hundred had been required. He’d have been needed if any of the previous five hundred had been defective. They hadn’t been. Drift was, then and always, surplus to requirements. Unneeded, unwanted…

_No_. Not any more.

Regardless, Drift had not expected a forged medic like Ratchet to understand. Not someone who’d always had a place in society; not someone who’d been not only a good fit for his assigned role, but who’d excelled at it. Ratchet had never needed to wonder what he could make of himself, if only someone would give him a chance; he’d never learned to _take_ that chance when none had presented itself. 

It was almost enough to stoke the old anger in Drift’s spark until he remembered that Ratchet, who’d had absolutely no good reason to be working on gutter trash in the Dead End, had troubled himself to open and staff a clinic there, and had saved Drift’s life with no payment expected and no questions asked.

Drift’s anger faded as quickly as it had arisen, and all that was left in its wake was a persistent sense of wonder, not only that Ratchet had recalled that conversation, but that he’d been listening so closely in the first place.

“You remembered,” Drift whispered.

Ratchet’s hand gently squeezed Drift’s hip.

“Yeah, it’s good,” Drift said quietly. The engex had settled into a pleasant heat and a tingly feeling, but Drift was far from intoxicated. He looked out at the starfield, at the myriad little suns twinkling in the dark like a multitude of diamonds. “I think it’s even better sober.” Then he turned his optics from the beauty of vast space to Ratchet, his Ratchet, and leaned over and gave him a kiss.

Once in a lifetime good.


	4. The Galaxy Beneath Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get your fire extinguishers and your icy cold showers. You'll need them for this chapter...and the next.

Chapter Four: The Galaxy Beneath Us

One moment Drift had been lying on his back, his shoulder tucked into Ratchet’s side, listening to his systems hum in unison with his lover’s, savouring the taste of Ratchet’s kiss and watching the eternal mystery of the stars through the titaniplex window screen of the _Lost Light_ ’s observation lounge. At some point he’d licked his lips and, thinking he’d like a little more of that, leaned over to brush his mouth against Ratchet’s cheek.

That still didn’t explain how he’d wound up right _on top_ of Ratchet, with no view of the stars they’d come to see, and blocking Ratchet’s view as well. Or how his little gesture of affection had turned into Ratchet’s tongue sweeping over his and both their fans blasting heat. Ratchet’s hands were busy on Drift’s spinal strut, too, and any hope Drift might have had of cooling this situation off was pretty much gone now that his sensory nodes had all snapped to full alert, banded together into an army and started ganging up on his logical mind. It had been like that in the gutters of Rodion when he’d been craving a fix, and he hadn’t changed as much as he sometimes wished; once his pleasure sensors got going, the rest of him would follow them. 

Drift had precisely one chance to _not_ act like the cheap frag he’d often been accused of being. Reluctantly pulling his lips away from Ratchet’s, he panted, “Should we be doing this?”

Ratchet looked up at him, crystal blue eyes glowing softly, and murmured, “Don’t ask the ‘bot with _the three million year itch_ , as you put it.” He took his hands off Drift’s back long enough to make air quotes, and Drift’s nervous system twanged painfully at the loss. “If you want to stop, tell me you want to stop.”

Drift whimpered. “I don’t want to stop.”

“All right, then.”

Those hands were back—thank Primus, _those hands were back_ —but as Drift arched into the touch, he sobbed.

“Drift?” Ratchet’s caress changed from inciting to soothing. “What are you thinking? Talk to me.”

“That I said I didn’t…didn’t want to just be…” Drift found it hard to talk around his staticky vocalizer, but Ratchet kept watching him, gaze kind and steady, touch tender. “That I didn’t want to just be your frag-buddy _and now look at me_.” He ground his teeth as his valve pulsed insistently under his armour; he felt hot and uncomfortable and sticky and filthy. “I feel all cranked up and I can’t make my frame just settle down and behave.” He exhaled smoky air from his vents in a sigh. “It’s like I get near you and I just…I….”

Ratchet patted Drift’s head-crest. “It’s perfectly normal,” he said kindly.

Drift raised an optic ridge skeptically.

Ratchet half-coughed; difficult with Drift right on top of him, but it wasn’t a real cough anyway, just a gesture of partially disguised embarrassment. “When two mechs start an…intimate relationship, it’s very common that they spend the early days of the new arrangement…erm…”

He wasn’t awkward like this when he spoke in the medbay, no matter how private the topic of discussion. Drift watched, fascinated, at this glimpse of Ratchet outside the clinical setting. 

“I mean, until the relationship dynamics settle into a comfortable routine, and while they’re not yet wholly familiarized with one another’s frames, and given the newfound freedom to act on their mutual attraction, it’s understandable that these two hypothetical individuals would very easily enter states of arousal. Consensual touching, stimulation and interface are normal and healthy ways to express affection and cement a romantic relationship.”

Ratchet had lapsed back into doctor-speak. It was probably comforting for him. Familiar. Drift didn’t care.

“So, there’s nothing wrong with these two mechanisms acting on their desires in consensual ways that make both partners happy. In fact, it’s perfectly normal that for the early days of the relationship these two hypothetical individuals might, er, might…”

“Frag each other’s brains into stasis every chance we…um, _they_ , get?”

Ratchet’s face plates flared with heat, and his vents began flickering open and closed. “Ah…yes.” He scowled. “And don’t ever finish my sentences for me.” Ratchet tried to hide his smile under a grimace, failed, chuckled helplessly, and Drift grinned with satisfied delight as he felt Ratchet’s chest shaking with laughter under his own.

“Sorry for trying to help,” Drift purred. “Is _this_ more helpful?” He licked a line from under Ratchet’s chin up the edge of his jaw, and suddenly the medic’s chuckles cut off in a sharp intake of breath. Drift nibbled, listening to Ratchet’s inhalations become increasingly erratic as the medic’s frame grew significantly warmer underneath him. He wondered if he’d know when to press his luck, but then Ratchet moved his head and they were kissing hungrily and Drift found the question had answered itself.

So, back to heatedly making out, and it wasn’t as though Drift were at all _sorry_ about that, but words kept echoing in his head: _when two mechs start an intimate relationship, it’s very common that they spend the early days fragging each other’s brains into stasis every chance they get._ He couldn’t stop thinking about it, even though he loved Ratchet’s touch on his spinal strut and the taste of the medic on his lips. Every time he thought the word _fragging_ his valve tingled insistently, and he kept wishing weird things, like wishing that Ratchet was on top of him, or wishing Ratchet’s clever hands might make their way down his back to his armour, opening the clasps, dipping between his thighs… His valve nodes positively _burned_ at that thought, and then he pulled his head away from Ratchet and gasped because he felt something _wet_ , something hot and wet and insistent under his armour and how was he ever going to explain…

“Drift?” Ratchet asked, concern in his voice even through the static of arousal. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” Drift panted, wishing the problem would just go away so he could get back to paying attention to Ratchet.

“Drift,” Ratchet said warningly, his steely stare indicating he knew damn well Drift was lying, and his tone making clear that he wasn’t happy about the dishonesty.

Drift cringed. “I feel weird and it’s embarrassing.”

“Weird how?” His voice softened, and he patted Drift’s finial affectionately. “Don’t be embarrassed. Medics hear everything.”

“Under my armour weird,” Drift admitted, feeling his cheeks heat.

“Do you want me to take a look at it?”

Drift grinned. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

Ratchet poked him. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Yes, I _would_ , but what I’m asking is if you want a doctor’s opinion.”

“I thought First Aid or Ambulon had to do my medical exams from now on.”

“As a matter of propriety, yes, but if you’re really worried I can at least give you my thoughts.”

Drift bit his lip. “It’s tender there. I found out while I was waxing up, er, waiting for you to get off shift.” Drift didn’t want to admit that he’d waxed under his armour, oiled his cable, and considered shining his valve rim until he’d realized just how sore his valve still was from the workout they’d given it, especially up inside.

“Mrrrgh. That’s normal. It should be fine in another day or so—tell your doctor if it’s not—and it won’t be so sore again now that it’s been, er…”

“Broken in?”

Ratchet coughed. “What did I say about finishing sentences?”

Drift didn’t really remember what having a factory-fresh valve felt like. His first time around, he’d been caught in a cycle between boosting, sleeping it off, and waking up with an all-consuming craving for more boosters—which he’d promptly taken, and the cycle had started all over again. The influences of the drugs had fogged his mind, and if his valve had been sensitive, it wasn’t surprising he didn’t remember it. 

It was a relief to know that he wouldn’t end up tender like this every time he let Ratchet jack in, but that wasn’t much help to him right now. His valve throbbed insistently, and he didn’t know how to make it leave him alone until it was ready to use again.

“Sorry, I…” Drift didn’t even get a chance to finish this time before his valve pulsed insistently, clenching and relaxing as though it already had a cable in it. Drift almost choked. “Ratchet, my stupid valve keeps…tingling and it’s…” His face heated. “Wet and stuff.”

“Show me?”

“Sure. Not that we can do anything.” Drift scowled. Who’d have thought he’d come to this—hot and ready to frag and his frame letting him down? He knelt and stripped off his armour with quick precision: four snaps, then plating set aside. What was the point in charging Ratchet up with a striptease when his valve wasn’t ready to frag? 

Drift really, sincerely regretted the degree to which he’d oiled his cable. He could always use that, he supposed. Ratchet liked to receive data transfers as much as he liked giving them. But of course, after giving his cable so much attention while he’d waited for Ratchet, it was satiated and content now. Unlike his valve, which wept freely and ached to feel something inside it.

“Lie down and get comfy,” Ratchet said as he rose to his knees. Drift lay on his back, feeling awkward, and Ratchet moved around Drift’s body. The medic went down on his knees slowly, easing his weight down so as not to aggravate aching joints.

Comfy. Right. Drift put his head on the bag that Ratchet had been using for a pillow, laced his hands behind his finials and…ergh. He was holding his knees together like some demure little new-build straight off the assembly line. Who was he trying to fool?

_Nothing Ratchet hasn’t seen before_ , Drift reminded himself as he spread his legs, ignoring a darker voice whispering _nothing you haven’t done before_.

Still, Drift closed his eyes to avoid having to watch Ratchet’s reaction to the sight of his dripping valve. He felt a bead of lubricant slip out of that valve and slide down his thigh, and felt his face heat with shame when Ratchet’s finger brushed it away.

“Can I try something?” Ratchet asked.

“Yeah. Sure.” Anything to get some relief or even put an end to this humiliation.

Drift felt something impossibly soft caress his poor, sensitive valve. There was no firmness, no resistance. Just something gentle and tender, molding itself to Drift’s valve, sweet and kind.

Drift’s optics flew open.

Ratchet was kissing him.

Kissing his _valve_. Drift’s face heated for a different reason. 

Ratchet ended the kiss and looked up, utterly unashamed of what he’d just done. “What do you think, kid?”

“I…er…think?” Drift stammered.

Ratchet smiled. His thumbs stroked Drift’s thighs. “Here, let me know if you like this.”

_Oh, Primus, he’s doing it again_. Drift kept his eyes fixed on Ratchet’s helm as the Chief Medical Officer lowered his head. Drift’s valve twitched at the soft presence of lips and then…and then…something cool and moist stroked his overheated valve.

It felt…Oh, Primus, it felt _incredible_. It was so gentle and yet so intimate, the way the soft touch molded itself to the folds of Drift’s valve, almost frictionless, its moisture mingling with Drift’s own lubricants as it stroked him tenderly. When it reached the front of his valve and drew away, Drift cried out with loss, and then…and then it returned. At the back of his valve, moving up the right side. Drift purred.

What could it be? Its touch was both profoundly loving and deeply erotic; reassuring and exciting all at the same time. Drift looked, and made himself keep looking despite the sight of Ratchet settled between his legs, the medic’s gaze lowered as he…

Drift gasped as the caress retreated, but it came back right away, up the left side of his valve this time, and Drift clenched his hands against his chest as he realized that Ratchet was using his tongue. 

_His tongue on my valve._

Ratchet finished his stroke with a gentle swirl on the tender node at the front of Drift’s valve. Drift gasped and hugged himself tighter. It felt so…so _decadent_ , to lie back here and look at the stars while the Chief Medical Officer laved his filthy little valve with lips and tongue. 

“Like it?” Ratchet asked again, and Drift shivered, because he could feel the movement of Ratchet’s lips as a cool breeze against his slick valve.

Drift tried to say _yes_. It came out as an inarticulate, needy sound. He nodded to make his intent clear.

Ratchet smiled; Drift could see it in his optics, even if most of his mouth was out of sight. “Good,” he breathed, and dipped his head again.

Quickly, before another of those impossibly sweet touches could silence him, Drift choked out what he needed to say. “Ratchet, it’s dirty.”

Ratchet lifted his head to meet Drift’s optics. “With all the wax you used? You’re plenty clean.”

That wasn’t what he meant. He’d learned in the gutters that you could scrub and scrub and never get the filth off. “No, I’m…I’m dripping.”

Ratchet tilted his helm, and Drift thought the moment was over until he noticed the shine of his own fluids on Ratchet’s mouth and the _Chief Medical Officer running his tongue over his lips and lapping them clean_.

Drift whined.

“You’re sweet, kid,” Ratchet breathed. 

“Oh, Primus.” Drift was almost inarticulate. “You don’t care. You…”

“Can I give you some more?”

The voice inside Drift’s head insisted that a cheap buymech from Rodion—someone who couldn’t even remember how many people had jacked into his valve, let alone who they all were—could be the object of the Chief Medical Officer’s adoration, but its argument couldn’t hold when Ratchet looked at Drift with that air of patient expectation and, yes, desire, and Drift, for his part, desperately wanted to feel that tenderly erotic caress again. 

“Please,” he whispered.

Drift watched. He couldn’t see everything from this angle, but he could see Ratchet’s chevron moving in slow sweeping arcs that matched the caresses of his tongue, and the way Ratchet would every once in a while glance up at his face to be sure it was still good for him, and the stars…oh, the stars.

Drift lay back, his body relaxing and his vision dimming, abandoning himself to the sensation. He wanted it to last forever. He knew he’d want it again. 

It struck him, suddenly, that Ratchet might at some moment decide to _stop_ , and the very thought filled Drift with sudden, paralyzing fear. This felt so good—how much would it hurt for it to be suddenly taken away from him? 

“Don’t stop,” Drift whimpered. The time it took between Ratchet’s tongue ending a stroke and beginning another felt like an eternity. “Please don’t stop.”

Ratchet murmured something inaudible, but Drift felt cold fear tighten around his spark. He adored this so much, _needed_ it and was completely at Ratchet’s mercy for _getting_ it. He’d thought craving Ratchet’s touch was hard, but this would be so much worse.

What if Ratchet got tired? Bored? How badly would the loss hurt? How would Drift ever deal with that? He could do nothing but plead for mercy. 

“Please, I’ll do anything, just please don’t stop, please,” Drift begged…and then Ratchet _did_ stop.

Drift gasped, but then Ratchet’s index finger was on his valve, stroking so gently, making sure Drift didn’t fall from where he’d climbed, only partway to climax. The moistness from Ratchet’s tongue mingled with Drift’s own fluids and coated the finger with sweet moisture. It stroked Drift’s nodes as tenderly as Ratchet’s tongue, and the Chief Medical Officer spoke kindly. “Deep breaths, Drift. I’m not going to let you fall. I promise.”

Drift did as he was told, sucking gulps of air into his intakes and waiting for Ratchet to have mercy on him and resume. Please, let him resume…

“Don’t be afraid.”

How did Ratchet always _know?_

“I’m not going to stop unless you ask me to.”

“Never…” Drift’s voice was shaky. “I’d never ask you to.”

“Oh, you might eventually.” Ratchet’s voice held teasing and gentleness in equal measure. “After a while, you’ll find yourself oversensitized. You’ll want a rest. I figured I’d check in with you somewhere around the third overload.”

“ _Third_.”

_Oh Primus…I didn’t hear that right. I couldn’t have heard that correctly._ Drift thought his jaw might have dropped. He was having trouble noticing any sensations except the sweet ache of his valve.

“Sure.” Ratchet smiled, and he looked _smug_ as the Pit, just twirling his finger around the inner rim of Drift’s valve and taking obvious amusement at the expression on the speedster’s face. “First one’s really just a warm-up, and probably won’t take much, given how your thighs are trembling already. It’s the second that’s going to feel _particularly_ good, and I want you to lie back and _savor_ it.” Ratchet’s grin stretched wider. “But I’d hate to leave you even the slightest bit unsatisfied, so I’m thinking the third will probably satiate you completely—though if it doesn’t, I’m happy to keep going.”

Ratchet’s words seemed more unreal, not less, the longer he talked, but Drift wasn’t taking any chances—if this was a dream, he wanted to get to the good part before he woke up. He nodded eagerly. “Yes. Yes please.”

“Then you lie back and enjoy and don’t worry.”

Ratchet replaced that gently stroking finger with his warm wet tongue and Drift moaned in sheer delight. 

_He’s not going to stop. You’ll have this all you want._

_All I want…_

Drift could feel his inner thighs quaking, his whole body tensing up like a spring wound to breaking point, and instead of feeling frightened he felt completely at peace. Ratchet would take care of him. Ratchet would…

A gentle kiss. A deep lick.

Drift’s world came undone.


	5. Beyond My Horizons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forget the fire extinguishers. Get a pumper truck on standby first. Then read. 
> 
> I couldn't resist a very tiny cameo from a certain someone who I'm going to have to do a little bit more with in my IDW-based stories....
> 
> This is for HID and TBD who are picking me up stuff from TFCon Chicago so I'm not so depressed about not being able to go myself. I go to TFCon Toronto (since dinobots ruled the earth) and got my robot fix for this year but....yeah. So....Thanks guys for supporting my Dratchet habit!

Chapter 5: Beyond My Horizons

Drift thought he knew a few things about overloading. For example, when Tailgate of all people had shyly sidled up to him at Swerve’s and asked if a mech with his experience had some advice for someone who really wanted to blow his partner’s mind, Drift had been happy to take the drink that Tailgate bought him and describe a few of his favourite tricks. Drift had been privately amused that a mech of Tailgate’s age and accomplishments could still be so very innocent. Tailgate’s optics had just about popped out of his head, and he’d stammered a very shaky “thank you,” but his gratitude had seemed sincere. Drift idly wondered who Tailgate had tried those maneuvers on.

Drift wasn’t so terribly experienced when it came to _being_ overloaded, though, and certainly not from someone else’s tongue in his valve, which was something as a rule rarely done in the Dead End. Sucking cable was faster and gave the customer all the thrill of jacking in without risking your port guard failing and getting uploaded full of someone else’s memories or, worse, viruses. Lapping valve was slow—a luxury you couldn’t afford when rival gangs or cops or whatever could burst in on you at any minute—and often not intense enough for someone whose senses were dulled by circuit boosters or too much engex. Plus, a mech could get sick off tainted fluids pretty easily. Gasket had hammered home to Drift that if someone wanted to buy that service, they had better be the kind of regular who forked out for a hotel room and a fat bonus fee. 

Drift had done it a few times, but not often. He’d never been on the receiving end of it before.

It was incredible. So soft, but so intense at the same time. So shockingly filthy and perverse and yet somehow also so very loving _._ Drift believed that Ratchet had to care for him very much to do this for him, even though he was also very aware that his body was utterly at the medic’s mercy, and he’d do anything if only Ratchet would keep going.

Ratchet had told him he wanted Drift to do nothing save _enjoy_.

Drift’s body trembled on the brink of overload, screaming for release, his whole frame shaking, and then a gentle kiss and a deep lick and the ultimate pleasure took him. Drift shook, convulsing with pleasure and Ratchet…Ratchet curled his hands over Drift’s thighs, not pinning him exactly but keeping a firm hold so that he could continue his ministrations, draw out the pleasure, then lower him down gently once the peak had passed. 

Drift found himself sucking down huge gulps of air once the moment had passed. The observation deck was usually warm, but the air felt cold now in contrast to the heat pouring off Drift’s frame. Drift felt his body relaxing and at this point in this still young but not entirely new relationship, he’d learned enough to recognize that this was what a body did in the warm glow that followed a good overload. He settled himself, sighed…

…and felt a sudden sharp arousal hit him like lightning. His frame crackled with sudden intense charge screaming for release. He thought he’d been turned on before they’d started; he’d never felt lust like this. He felt as though he hadn’t had release for months, maybe years…never mind the hazy afterglow still cradling his spark. 

_Oh, Primus_.

Ratchet was nuzzling his inner thighs, kissing him there. Drift could feel the hot exhalations from Ratchet’s fans wafting a tantalizing breeze over his valve, which had to be shining with moisture. Drift took a deep breath to stop himself from panting. His whole frame was shaking with pent-up desire. He was just so eager for more. He was finally the frag-addicted slut he’d always been told he was, and…

_No._

_I wouldn’t do this with anyone else. Just Ratchet. I just want Ratchet._

_I_ want _Ratchet._

_I’m not ashamed of it._

There was nothing at all wrong with wanting one’s partner. Drift’s religious studies had never revealed to him a single Cybertronian faith where desiring interface with one’s partner was a sin. Why was he feeling guilty? Having a lover didn’t make him a slut. Wanting his lover wasn’t bad.

Maybe it was just that he’d never thought of himself this way…as being a person who might actually want interface for its own sake. As being a person who might _like_ it.

Well, he _did_ like it with Ratchet, and he was going to enjoy it _right now_. He let out his breath slowly, feeling his body relax. His legs were already open, but he spread them a little further, as wide as he could, and the act was one of acceptance.

_My name is Drift and I’m ready to receive pleasure and enjoy every minute of it._

It occurred to him that maybe he ought to tell Ratchet what he was thinking. He licked his lips and said, his voice a little shaky, “Ratchet?”

“Mmm?” The medic looked up from his current spot of interest, which was a spot on Drift’s left inner thigh.

“I want…”

“Yes?” Ratchet’s hands gently stroked Drift’s legs, so close to his valve that Drift thought they might brush it, but they didn’t, and oh, he wanted them to. He wanted…

“What do you want?” Ratchet asked gently.

Drift bit his lip, looking for words, because Ratchet didn’t like dirty talk. On the street they’d say stuff like _lick out my valve_ ; the last time Drift had done it, he’d been told to _eat my port, drink down my lube, suck it up like you’re starving, you filthy little clutch-muncher_. Drift _had_ been starving, so he’d done as he’d been told; the fuel he’d bought with the money he’d earned had been enough to fill his empty tanks and almost enough to rinse away the taste of his customer’s fluids. 

But this situation had nothing to do with that. Drift had figured out that was why Ratchet didn’t like rough, degrading language in a relationship that was neither. But Drift didn’t know any other words to describe what he wanted.

There had to be some medical term—surely Ratchet knew it—but that wasn’t sexy either. Clinical Ratchet could put his fingers up valves, search for problems, fix them, and go on about his business without so much as a flicker of arousal. Drift didn’t want clinical Ratchet. He wanted sexy Ratchet, and…

His valve pulsed strongly, seeking sensation that wasn’t there. Drift gasped. “Kiss me,” he said, his voice half strangled with desire. “Kiss me there again…”

Ratchet did, a soft brush of his lips against Drift’s valve.

It was good, and yet not quite enough. “L…” Drift could barely make himself say it. “Lick me,” he managed at last, his face heated. 

_Oh, Primus, his tongue._ A long, slow lick, leaving oral fluid on Drift’s valve, thick and decadent, rich and creamy, so impossibly sweet…

…and then a pause, so long, such a difficult wait. Drift set aside his shame and blurted his request, “Make-love-to-me-with-your-tongue, lick-me-to-overload-please.” 

“Yes,” Ratchet murmured, the vibrations of his voice teasing Drift’s sensitive places. He began a series of slow, steady licks, and Drift groaned in pure delight.

The white speedster dared to prop himself up on his elbows and watch Ratchet pleasuring him. The medic was so intent on his task. It made Drift’s fuel pump knock and hammer in a not-unpleasant way. “I love it,” Drift whispered, his mouth dry. “Ratchet, I…” He whimpered as he saw his own hips start pumping into Ratchet’s tongue-strokes, seeking that touch inside his valve. “It feels so good and I love it.”

“I’m glad,” Ratchet murmured. Loudly. Drift could tell, because Ratchet’s lips didn’t break contact with his valve, and to make up for the muffled tones, Ratchet raised his voice. Ratchet did something with his mouth—sucking, maybe, Drift wasn’t sure, but the way it felt made Drift squirm with excitement.

Then Drift felt Ratchet’s hands slipping under his aft, cupping him, lifting his valve to Ratchet’s mouth as though it were a glass of fine engex. Ratchet sipped, and Drift moaned.

_This is happening to me. This is really happening to me._ After a lifetime of convincing himself that sexual acts were happening to someone else, to that other-him who wasn’t _really_ him, not _really…_ now he had to actively remind himself that he, Drift, number 501 who nobody wanted, was really and truly being made love to by someone who wanted him very much.

Ratchet’s tongue dipped into his valve and Drift cried out. “Oh, Primus, Ratchet, yes. _Yes_.”

“You’re so responsive,” Ratchet purred. “I love to pleasure you.”

Drift’s answer to that was a strangled cry—emotion expressed in pure sound, too raw for words. Ratchet’s tongue slid in and out of Drift’s valve, sometimes pressing hard on sensitive nodes, sometimes soft and sweeping. Drift felt his hips moving in response, helped by Ratchet’s supportive hands under his aft. They moved together, until Drift’s vision blurred out in a haze of white light and his whole body crackled with arousal.

“Ratchet. Ratchet.” He was close to his overload, and he’d never felt a charge anything like the power he could feel coursing through his frame, ready to explode, but he somehow felt it was desperately important he say something to Ratchet before he lost his voice to screams. “Ratchet, I love you, _I love you…_ ”

Drift wasn’t sure what Ratchet did, exactly. He changed _something_ to indicate he’d heard and understood Drift’s message, and Drift didn’t know if it was a change in position or pressure or the movement he was using or _what_ , but whatever it was it, it was exactly what Drift had needed to catapult his frame into overload.

Ratchet did the same thing as before, moving with him when he bucked and twisted, feeding in the sensation for as long as Drift needed to prolong his climax. When it faded, as it inevitably had to, Ratchet gentled his touch, easing Drift down. It sounded like Ratchet was murmuring something, or maybe he was just humming, Drift couldn’t tell, but it felt kind and comforting and…and…

Drift opened his mouth again, and what emerged was once again a lack of words, just a sound, a needy sound, a sound of want and loneliness and fear of abandonment. He didn’t want to feel this way, but he couldn’t help it, not after Ratchet had made him helpless with desire and swamped his senses with pleasure…now, now that he was worn out and done, he didn’t want to be alone…

He held out his hands, trying to feel something—Ratchet’s arms or helm or anything to let him know he wasn’t alone. All of a sudden, he felt something heavy land next to him. Then Ratchet’s arms were around him, holding him close. Drift whimpered his gratefulness as he pressed himself tightly against the medic’s frame.

He wasn’t sure what had happened to the three-overload plan. He hadn’t asked Ratchet to stop. Or, he thought, maybe in a way he _had_. The comfort he needed flooded his systems. He could feel the subtle vibrations of Ratchet’s engine through the metal armour covering the medic’s chest.

Ratchet was kissing him, too, but strangely enough, on the cheek. Drift turned his head in search of a kiss on the mouth. At last, their lips touched and a strange scent filtered into Drift’s consciousness. Ratchet tasted a bit different, too… Drift pulled back abruptly when he realized he was tasting himself on Ratchet’s lips, Ratchet’s tongue.

It wasn’t bad, though, just…just strange. Ratchet was watching him patiently, and Drift leaned forward again, angling for another kiss. Ratchet smiled and then they were kissing again, tongues sweeping together until the only thing Drift could taste was Ratchet, fresh and sweet.

Drift realized that he hadn’t replaced his armour, and his valve was still wet and a little chilly now, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to stay here, like this, forever…loved, _wanted_ for once in his life.

“You all right?” Ratchet murmured in his audio.

Drift wanted to say _yes_ , but when he opened his mouth, what came out was a terrible confession: “ _They didn’t want me_.”

“Who’s they?”

Drift felt mortified, but now that he’d brought it up, he really ought to answer Ratchet’s question. The speedster rubbed at his optics and said, “Whoever built me. I didn’t ever find out who they were. They wanted five hundred…they got five hundred and one. I’m leftover product. Surplus production. Trash. They didn’t want me.”

“Built…” Ratchet appeared flabbergasted. Then, to Drift’s horror, the Chief Medical Officer looked away and down, and muttered, “Constructed cold.” 

Oh no. Oh _no no no_. After Ratchet had forgiven him _everything_ , was he going to lose him over some outdated _stupid_ bias about construction method? Why couldn’t Drift just keep his stupid mouth _shut_? No, he had to ruin everything he touched.

“Ratchet?” Drift whispered, feeling the universe implode beneath him.

Ratchet hugged him tightly. “It’s okay, kid. It’s in your medical records, I’d just…just forgotten about it, is all. It doesn’t matter, it…it _shouldn_ ’ _t_ matter.”

“But it does.” Drift’s fuel pump felt like a lump of lead.

“Then I’ll damn well deal with it,” Ratchet said, his voice taking an edge of anger that wasn’t directed towards Drift. “I’m not losing you because of some…some old idea.”

Drift rationed each breath, existing from one inhalation to the next, hoping he could deal with whatever might be coming. Echoes of memories filtered through his mind. _All the best medics are forged._ A theory that cold constructed mechs were more inclined to superstition. Did Ratchet think Drift’s faith was based in some kind of…of neurological disorder? 

Drift felt himself gritting his teeth, bracing for a fight, but to his surprise it wasn’t Ratchet he wanted to fight with. He was going to fight for this relationship, as hard as he could and for as long as it took.

He just wish he knew _how_.

“Tell me,” Ratchet said suddenly.

“Huh?” Drift was confused.

“Up in Iacon, we’d hear a lot of stories. Rumours. I always treated cold-constructed bots just like I treated anyone else, or tried my best to, and it hurt just as much when I lost them, but _treating_ them doesn’t mean I _understood_ them or knew anything about them. Please, Drift, tell me. Tell me what it was like to _not_ be forged in a prosperous city centuries before the war.”

Drift drew in a ragged breath. “It’s…it’s like I said. I don’t know why they built me or what they wanted five hundred speedsters for, but they got them. I found out later they often built…extras. In case someone on the regular production run was defective. That’s what I was for, I guess, except the regular run all worked out.”

Ratchet’s face was a mask of horror. Drift hesitated, but the Chief Medical Officer patted his back. “Go on.”

“So I’d only just come online and…there was this guy working night shift in the factory, a security guy. Transistor or Transmission or something like that. Big guy. He dragged me out of recharge and took me out back into the alley. Shoved a pack into my hands and told me to run if I knew what was good for me.”

“He threw you out?” Ratchet protested. “Without any knowledge of how the world worked?” He looked shocked, and Drift hated to correct him, but…

“He saved my life, Ratch.” Drift curled his fingers over Ratchet’s hands, because Ratchet was going to need the support. “‘Bots like me, we were surplus to requirements, and often they’d only have enough…fuel or tools or guns or spare parts or whatever for the planned production run. I found a lot of mechs—defectives and extras both—with their sparks extinguished, set out to be smelted down to their component metals. On the streets we hung out around the factories a lot. Good salvaging.”

Drift felt Ratchet’s hands trembling as the implication sank in.

“So yeah, I owe that guy Tran-whatever a lot, because I’m sure he broke a lot of rules to give me a chance. The pack had energon and a few shanix and a map and a blanket, but it didn’t take long for me to drink the energon, spend the shanix, get the blanket stolen, and sell the pack for fuel. Then I was right down at the bottom. I didn’t even have an I.D., because according to the factory, they’d only built five hundred and those were all accounted for, right? So there I was, alone on the streets of Rodion with nothing.”

Ratchet closed his arms around Drift. “I can’t even imagine…”

No. No, he probably couldn’t, and there was a time when thinking about that would’ve made Drift angry. There had been a time when Drift had wanted _everyone_ to hurt the way he had, to know what it was like to be hungry and injured and know that absolutely nobody gave a damn. There had been a time when Drift had thought it was great to be the guy _kicking_ instead of the guy _being kicked_ for a change. And there had been a time when Drift was certain that Megatron and the Decepticons would burn the old order to the ground, never to rise again, if only they could win the war. 

But life wasn’t that easy. Drift couldn’t shoot, or slice, or punch all the injustice out of the world. And he couldn’t build a better future on a foundation of carnage.

Drift dimmed his optics. “When you first met me, when I was all strung out on intoxicants, I wanted you to know why. Why I started boosting. A lot of us did. It’s what got us through another day down there in the gutters. It’s how we forgot that we were hungry, and it’s how we forgot about what we did to get the little bit of fuel we did have. Who we killed, or who we fragged, or who we scavenged, or who we stole from. I’m sorry you saw me like that. But I can never be sorry I met you.”

“I’m glad I was there.” Ratchet dared to stroke Drift’s cheek, and Drift smiled.

“Anyway. Yeah. After you, I had a few friends, but the streets took them away. I got a job as a…er, I guess _hired gun_ is the best way to put it…but you don’t get too attached to those kinds of employers. I guess…I guess when Megatron noticed me…I mean, I thought maybe I’d find somewhere to belong. Somewhere where I was wanted. I know you don’t like when people talk about that part of my life, but…I wanted you to know. Why.”

Ratchet sighed. “Kid, someone let you down. What happened to you was just so wrong and I don’t know who to blame. No _wonder_ you didn’t trust anyone. No _wonder_ you didn’t want to go down to the Functionalist council and ask for work. You’d probably seen what happened to anyone they deemed useless. They probably ended up down on the streets with you.”

Drift nodded. Yes, that had happened often.

“I can’t fix that. I wish I could. All I can really do now is hope that…” Ratchet trailed off. Drift waited, and then he tilted his head curiously. Was Ratchet _shy_?

“Yeah?”

“…hope you might want to belong with me,” Ratchet muttered.

Drift felt his spark swell near to bursting. “Yes. Yes, that’s what I want.” 

“Me, too, kid.”


	6. After the Darkest Night, the Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's said that what you do on New Year's Day will set the pattern for the whole year, so 2015 will now be filled with Dratchet fluff. Oh, and Part Six of Mend What Is Broken will start in upcoming months, too. :)

Chapter Six: After the Darkest Night, the Dawn

Drift’s lips were millimeters away from Ratchet’s when a sudden piercing alarm startled them both.

“That you?” Drift asked as he sat up and pulled away. He supposed that emergency alerts were something he was going to have to get used to if he was going to have a relationship with a doctor.

Ratchet struggled to a sitting position and checked his comm. “No, I think that’s _you_ ,” he said.

_Me_?

Oh. Right. Third-in-command. Drift still hadn’t come to terms with the fact that _he_ of all people had been designated Autobot officer material. 

He flipped open his comm link. “Drift here,” he said, trying to sound authoritative.

“This is Ultra Magnus,” came the voice over the comm. “I’ve been informed of the health crisis on the observation deck. Sound recorders are down. No visual. Status report.”

Drift checked his chronometer and realized to his shock that he and Ratchet had spent over four hours cuddling, talking, and…yeah, okay, Ratchet had rocked Drift’s world more than once during that time.

Drift looked at Ratchet, sitting on a blanket, and the two partially finished goblets of fine engex nearby. His gaze passed over the white noise generator that had shielded their mutual moans and cries from the sound recorders in the room, and fell on the fire-retardant foam that he and Ratchet had “accidentally” sprayed over the security cameras. Their romantic interlude was over, and now it was up to Drift to make sure they didn’t get caught.

“Green across the board,” Drift said, hoping he’d gotten the terminology right. “Ratchet says it was a false alarm. He’s run a full spectrum analysis, everything’s clear, but looks like his equipment is interfering with the sound recorders?”

“Possible,” Ultra Magnus admitted. “What about the cameras?”

“Yeah, that was our fault,” Drift said breezily. “We tried to use some, uh, some diagnostic foam, but the canister was defective. I’ll make sure to wipe it off the lenses before we go.”

“Hmmm…I’ve never heard of diagnostic foam,” Ultra Magnus said. Drift could _hear_ the frown in his voice.

“Do you want to talk to Ratchet?” Drift inquired.

Ratchet smirked.

“No,” Ultra Magnus said, “he’s the medical professional and I defer to his judgment. I expect a full report on the incident tomorrow. Can you confirm that Ratchet will be announcing the all clear?”

Drift looked at Ratchet, who nodded.

“Affirmative,” Drift said.

“Roger. Ultra Magnus out.”

Drift closed his comm link and let out a sigh of relief. “I can’t believe we’re actually getting away with this and…are you _laughing_?”

Ratchet put on an expression of fake innocence, shook his head in the negative, and chuckled even louder. That did it for Drift. He braced his arm against a chair and laughed until he felt weak in the knees.

“I guess I better do the responsible thing,” Ratchet murmured, and opened his own comm link. “Tailgate? This is Ratchet.”

Drift heard nothing but dead air.

“Tailgate, can you acknowledge?”

A high pitched squeak came over the line.

“The observation deck was a false alarm. There’s no contagion here. Sorry if we scared…if you were worried.”

Tailgate’s sigh of relief was audible.

“Do you think you can pass the message on to Cyclonus?”

“Oh, sure!” Tailgate said. “He’s right here. I’m so relieved…not that I was frightened or anything, I mean, I survived the Andaxxian plague, so a few germs don’t bother me, but Cyclonus has been looking a little squeamish and…”

Drift heard a snort come over the comm lin, followed by a scuffling noise.

“Anyway, yeah, I’ll tell him and thanks, Ratchet! Tailgate out!”

Ratchet shook his head. “Those two are a strange pair,” he said, smiling fondly, and then opened a link to let Dipstick know there was no need to worry. When he closed that communication, he glanced up at Drift. “What’s that smirk for?” Ratchet asked.

Drift grinned. “I was just thinking that you must’ve gotten into a lot of trouble in your younger days.”

Ratchet nodded. “I suppose I did.” 

“And I suppose things haven’t changed as much as you might’ve thought.”

“Hush now,” Ratchet mock-scolded. “We won’t get away with it if Ultra Magnus hears us after I pack away this white noise generator.” Then he winked and handed Drift his engex. “Drink up, and let’s get rid of the evidence.” 

Drift took the glass, winked back, clinked it against Ratchet’s, and they both tossed back the remainder. He felt giddy, and he thought it had less to do with the engex burning in his fuel tanks and more to do with the fact that it had been a long time since he’d done something this silly just for the fun of it. 

Drift cleared the foam off the lenses of the security cameras after Ratchet put the generator, the engex bottle, the glasses and the blanket back into his bag. “Looks like everything’s all cleaned up in here,” he said loudly for the benefit of Ultra Magnus and the sound recorders.

“I’ll take the sign off the door,” Drift replied. Then, in a moment of whimsy, he stood with his back to the camera and made a goofy face.

Ratchet’s optics widened. He clapped one hand over his face and faked a cough to hide his laughter; the other hand flipped an obscene gesture in Drift’s direction before curling around the handle of his bag.

Drift practically skipped out of the observation lounge, his spark singing.

#

A few minutes later, Drift leaned against the door of Ratchet’s hab suite, sobbing with laughter. 

Ratchet dropped his bag on his cluttered desk and said, “I ought to spank you for trying to make me laugh.”

“You can go ahead and try,” Drift retorted with his best sleazy grin. He waggled his optic ridges.

It took them a good two minutes to recover from the giggle fit that ensued. Drift drew air into his aching intakes and choked on one last snicker. Ratchet wiped at his optics. “Hey,” the Chief Medical Officer said. “That engex isn’t going to drink itself. You want to stay a little longer?”

“Okay. Yeah,” Drift said, but he really did want to stay. “So, is that a normal date like normal mechs do?”

“No, that’s what two lunatic idiots do,” Ratchet grumbled, but when he handed Drift one of the two glasses, he wore a smile as bright as the stars.

“Okay. Here’s to being lunatic idiots together,” Drift said, raising his glass.

Ratchet’s gaze softened as they clinked their glasses together. They sat side by side on the edge of Ratchet’s berth, sipping their respective beverages.

Drift drank deeply, feeling happiness settling on him like a warm blanket. Before any dissenting voices in his head could try to tell him it was the engex, or maybe a fanciful delusion, Drift opened the hatch on his arm’s diagnostic cover and watched the overhead lights gleam in the engraving Ratchet had written there: _forgiven_.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Ratchet said, interrupting Drift from his comfortable reverie. The CMO gestured to the engraved word with one hand while he set down his glass with the other.

Drift felt a flurry in his fuel tank. Surely Ratchet didn’t regret what he’d written? 

“Yeah?” Drift asked, trying to sound cool.

“Seems to me we should match.” Ratchet flipped open his own diagnostic cover and leaned over to Drift.

Drift’s fuel pump skipped a beat. “Really?” 

_Me? Put my mark on Ratchet?_

Ratchet hesitated. “You, um, you do want us to be courting, right?”

“Yes!” Drift didn’t even have to think twice about that.

“You wouldn’t be happier being, I don’t know, friends with benefits or something?”

“Ratchet, if you decide you want to make me your conjunx endura someday, I am definitely there for that.” He wouldn’t even care if it were _right now,_ though logically he knew that Ratchet wanted them both to prove to each other that they were well-suited to being a couple.

“All right. Then we should match.” Ratchet’s lips curved into a smile. “Want me to detach a scalpel for you?”

Drift set his drink aside and took the proffered instrument, but all he could think to say was, “What do I write?” He couldn’t write _forgiven_. That wouldn’t make any sense. Ratchet had nothing to regret.

“Put whatever you think I need to know, kid.”

And then, in that moment, Drift knew what he’d engrave.

Drift hesitated, holding the tool a hair’s breadth away from Ratchet’s metal. “You, um, you going to turn down your pain sensors?” 

“You didn’t when I engraved you.” Ratchet glowered.

“Er…” He hoped Ratchet didn’t think it was because it didn’t hurt. It did. It stung quite a lot.

“You said, and I quote, _on the streets these marks mean nothing if you don’t feel them_. Well, I mean it, and I hope you do too.”

“I do.” Drift held the scalpel in position, praying his precision with swords wouldn’t desert him now.

“Then do it.”

Drift began to carve. Ratchet stared into the middle distance while Drift traced out a sequence of figures. He grunted only once, when one sign demanded Drift cut often and deeply.

“There,” Drift said at last as he shut off the scalpel. “All done.”

Ratchet took his arm back, rubbing at the shoulder joint before taking a look at the engraving on the underside of his diagnostic hatch. Drift watched as the CMO furrowed his brow.

“What in the Pit is that?” Ratchet demanded, staring at Drift’s handiwork.

Drift flinched, regretting his choice. He should’ve carved “love” or “devotion” or something like that.

Ratchet ran his thumb over the gleaming characters. “It’s not Neocybex or Primal Vernacular or any dialect I know,” he said thoughtfully, “and yet I swear it’s familiar.”

Drift felt a glimmer of hope. Was Ratchet giving him a chance…taking time to think and consider before snapping out a judgment?

“I know this sign,” Ratchet said suddenly, pressing his index finger against the first character. “It’s that Dead End patois that the lea…the street mechanisms used to pass information and warnings to each other. This sign was painted on the side of my clinic in the Dead End. Orion told me to leave it there, that it told the street mechs that I was safe, that I would treat them. It means hospital or something.” Ratchet glanced over at Drift, looking puzzled. “That’s what you wanted to share?”

Drift just sat there, feeling guilty. Why had he thought this was a good idea? He’d left that part of his life behind him.

Ratchet considered the carving again. “This middle part’s familiar too. It was added later. In…in this hideous chartreuse paint. I don’t know what it said but…” Ratchet’s optics flashed as he made the connection. “It was _you_ , wasn’t it. You painted that graffiti. All those years ago, it was you.”

Drift stared at the floor, his faceplates heating.

Ratchet stared at his new engraving, as though by studying it long enough, he could force it to translate. It didn’t, of course, and finally he turned, catching Drift’s cheek in his palm.

“What does it mean?” Ratchet asked, his voice gravelly.

Drift bit his lip. “The, uh, the first part, it doesn’t mean _hospital_. It means _doctor_.”

“Yeah, and I have these pretty red crosses that mean doctor,” Ratchet said, stroking Drift’s cheek with his thumb. “What did you have to add to it?”

Drift squirmed. “It means. Um. The middle part means, _the doctor is under my protection_.”

Ratchet’s optics latched onto his. “When you were in my clinic you couldn’t protect anything. And that green graffiti didn’t show up until quite a while later. You came back and painted that when you…when you were…”

_Deadlock_.

Ratchet didn’t want to say it, and Drift didn’t want to make him. “Yeah.”

Ratchet took his hand away and touched the middle symbol. “This one’s a bit different. Almost like crossed swords, instead of crossed guns. I’m guessing the one on my clinic said Deadlock.” He folded his hand around Drift’s, weaving their fingers together. “This one says Drift, doesn’t it?”

Drift nodded.

Then Ratchet’s optics sparkled. “You’d have had a fine time explaining yourself to Megatron if you’d ever had to make good on that threat, wouldn’t you?”

“Wasn’t easy,” Drift admitted.

Ratchet froze. “What the…are you saying you actually _did_ enforce that threat?”

“A couple times, yeah.”

Ratchet’s jaw dropped. Drift couldn’t help it. He laughed.

“You are incorrigible,” Ratchet said fondly, swatting him on the shoulder.

Drift leaned against his mate and laughed until his sides felt weak.

“So,” Ratchet said at last, “what does this last symbol mean? I don’t remember ever seeing it before.”

Drift lay his head on Ratchet’s shoulder. “It means _home_ ,” he whispered. “When I’m with you, I’m home.”

Ratchet folded his arm around Drift’s waist, and for a long time, he said nothing. Drift wondered what he was thinking. 

“This is new,” Ratchet said at last. “This whole…what we have…it’s not like anything I’ve done before.”

Drift tilted his head. “But…you’re supposed to be the one who knows how relationships work.”

Ratchet gave Drift a wry smile. “What I’m learning is that what we have together isn’t the same thing as any of my past relationships. I thought…I suppose something in my processor told me I’d be getting back what I’d lost. A new relationship to take the place of the old one. But this doesn’t feel like a repeat of history at all. This feels like I’m doing something brand new. I…I’ve never been someone’s home before.” His voice trembled on the last sentence.

“I’ve never been someone’s partner before,” Drift murmured. “It’s okay if new things are scary, Ratch.”

“Who’s scared?” Ratchet snorted. 

“Me,” Drift offered.

Ratchet sat silent, defused. Then he cleared his throat. “Me, too.”

“I think it’ll be okay.” Drift squeezed Ratchet’s hand, and saw their two open arm hatches, with the two engravings, come together. He was forgiven. And Ratchet had someone who would stand by him, forever.

Ratchet looked down at the two engravings and smiled. “Yeah. I think we’ll figure out how to live again. Together. One night at a time.”

The End


End file.
